Of Time and Tide
by Pickledwarf
Summary: An eye for an eye makes the world go blind, but love is blinder still. The story of a captain and his goddess.
1. Davy Jones

_I'd like to make a pre-emptive apology for crappy accents. They don't translate well to page._

..Yada yada, belongs to Disney, not me, I ain't making money.. Etc.

Enjoy!

-  


Davy Jones was but seventeen years of age when his tale began. All men are inevitably drawn to the sea, like a siren's call it holds most for their entire lives, and some never love another. He had scoffed at such tales. "_My one true love it the sea"_ he'd snorted, rolled his eyes and asked how they expect to have children, and where they'd put the ring. He wasn't a particularly unusual boy, of average weight and shape, if a little tall, just falling short of being rid of the childish roundness to his face. A scruffy, altogether pleasant-looking child, he'd signed up for work on a ship with little expectance of the experience other than work and pay. 

Yet oddly, those men he had laughed at and jested towards seemed to know _something_ as Davy Jones had been as captivated by the way the sunlight played across the surf like liquid diamonds as much as any other man to have sailed. It was an intuitive understanding, and he took to sailing like a—well, a duck to water. But that hadn't changed the fact that he was nothing more than a bilge-rat, and so he'd promptly spent the first two weeks pushing long, chestnut coloured hair out of his eyes and scowling at the way the sun made his freckles darker in a bucket of murky water disturbed only by his hand plunging into it as he scrubbed the deck. 

But nevertheless, where the other two men who'd never been to sea staggered across deck and bemoaned their very existence when the rolling waves sent them heaving and gagging over the edge of the ship, Davy had merely leant into each movement and saw the vessel for what she was; their home, their protector. And if it he was the one scrubbing the deck, it merely meant that he was the one trusted to keep her clean and pretty, and he couldn't argue with that when the cool sea spray kissed his skin, making his hair stick to his head instead of hanging into his eyes. 

The captain, a man named Edward Macmillan had few qualms with the boy. He was quietly industrious in his work, and caused few problems on board, keeping to himself when the rest of the crew were drunk. They were an honest crew, running trade between the New World, Scotland and Calcutta, and he hadn't in five years encountered pirates, all the time he'd been running the same trade route, and he knew that one day Davy Jones would make a fine captain. The boy had something about him that seemed to resonate in tune with their surroundings, so much so that Macmillan thought he might have been some kind of good luck charm, and in the first year that Davy had spent on the ship, there had been not so much a lick of a storm. 

Their ship, _the Scanty Maid_ was a merchant vessel, and had few cannons with which to defend itself, but the seas had been kind in that first year, and there had been neither hide nor hair of either pirates or storms. Davy changed in that first year aboard the _Maid_, he grew another two inches, learned to sail as if he'd been doing it his entire life, (Even if the crew nor captain ever found out that he could,) grew broader in shoulder and muscle, his skin acquiring a healthy tan. 

It could have been said that in this first year, if Davy Jones had fallen for the sea as many had before him, he kept it quiet. He saw the great body of water they traversed as something to be revered, of course, worshipped, absolutely. And he enjoyed sailing, that was certain, but whether he'd fallen _in love_ with the sea was another matter entirely. How did one love an entity that was little more than a concept? He wasn't so certain. 

Their first massive storm came off the coast of India, on the back of a hurricane. Macmillan assumed that he'd been lucky as he had to avoid the storms on top of the pirates, after all, Jones had been onboard ship for two years by that time, with nothing but calm seas and smooth sailing, so he should have counted himself highly lucky that this was the first storm they'd encountered. Davy, for his part, had been quietly hoping for a break in the calm seas and gentle winds. A young man now, nineteen years old, he wanted excitement and danger, and couldn't have asked for more, whether it be maelstrom or pirates. 

And his wish had been granted in the form of a monstrous storm that threatened to break the ship apart. He'd been entrusted with the helm for six months by this point, but the captain had taken it back under the dire circumstances, battling against winds that ripped at the sails as the crew struggled to secure them, waves that tossed the galleon about like a child with some plaything. The wheel span furiously as the ship was jolted through another powerful crest, and Macmillan, for his part, struggled to gain control, grasping at it and attempting to wrench them back on course, against the waves. It had been the first time Davy Jones had experienced a storm, the first time he'd make remarks that would set him aside from other men. 

"Captain!" He shouted over the roar of the waves and the cry of the wind, his voice coloured by his accent, "Captain, leave it be!" 

Macmillan had shot him a quizzical expression, as if he'd gone mad. Perhaps he had, for the next thing the young man had uttered was- 

"Treat her as a woman, Cap'n. Ye can not hope ta fight her, an' she's been kind to us so far, let 'er lead course fer once." Stormy blue-grey eyes seemed almost pleading in their intensity, and the captain had little to do but admit the boy was right—if he continued to tarry with the waves, they ran the risk of the rudder breaking, and without that they'd be without course, truly at the sea's mercy. He allowed Jones to take the helm, the boy's calloused fingertips running the smooth, sodden surface of the wheel as it span and span, offering merely a few guiding touches as they rode out the worst of the storm. 

"Th' way I see it, Cap'n," He offered by way of explanation, "She's been good ta us, an' offered wind wherever we wanted ta be, so th' least we can do is let 'er take control for us whene'er she wants. It ain't fer us ta butt heads wi' her, an' it'll do more harm than good. A few days off course is be'er than a broken ship an' a missin' crew." 

And the boy had been right—within six hours the storm had blown over them, the ship largely intact and the crew all accounted for. When praised, Jones had merely smiled a little mysteriously, and shook his head with a shrug. Why was he to be held accountable? He had done nothing that the sea wouldn't have forced upon them one way or another. He'd offered guidance, and that was it. For the next three years, times were good, and they turned many prosperous trades with the world, Davy merely happy to be at ease with the ocean. 

It was when he was twenty-four years old that Davy had his first dealings with pirates. Press-ganged without much hassle into the crew of a man named Captain Sol, Jones found little problem with his transition; in his mind a crew was a crew and the sea was still the sea, regardless of how one sailed it. The crew were hardened by the difficult life of hunted men, but times were even more prosperous and there was plenty of sea to sail, and ships to plunder. Over each year that passed, his wages or rather, his share of the gold they took wasn't spent or wasted on material things like the other crewmembers, but rather squirreled away, gathering over the years. 

By the time the ship docked in England disguised as a merchant sailing vessel, Davy had accumulated a small fortune, enough to barter a crew and supplies. But they lacked a ship. Wandering the docks, suitably downhearted by the entire revelation, Davy Jones happened upon what would become perhaps the only material item he would ever claim to love; the ship that would become cursed and feared by honest men and pirates alike. It was a large ship; a beautiful ship, decorated with little gilt or finery, but rather, carved into the wood were the most unusual things, around the helm, the cannons, the bow. 

_The Flying Dutchman_, she was called, and Davy Jones had to have her the moment he laid eyes on her. Now, whilst the crew he'd gathered were not the most honest of men, they knew the difficulties that came with ah—commandeering a ship, especially one as noticeable as the _Dutchman_. But Davy was nothing if not clever, and so, whilst he sold off half of the cargo he'd have traded in the East, he bought off a second crew to stage a similar attack across the port town, and whilst the guard were suitably distracted, they'd made off with the beautiful _Dutchman_ without so much as a chase, carried along by quick winds that filled their sails to the fullest. 

It was with that gorgeous specimen that Captain Davy Jones would begin his unwitting courtship of the sea, entirely oblivious to the events that might unfold ten, fifteen years down the line. He would find himself in high spirits often, a man best described by his fair nature. He commanded his ship with a tight fist, but a fist that was nevertheless gloved in velvet. He would find himself singing, songs without words in the dead of night, when the only sound was the slow creak of the ship and the gentle kiss of the ocean against the wooden bow. The crew never heard such songs, fastened in sleep as they were by rum and by work, and he was alone in his slow worship at the best of times.

But he was a good captain, the best that had yet sailed the oceans, the time of the Pirate Lords of the Brethren court not yet coming to pass, and he remained untouched by both the sea and by other pirates; they could do him no harm, armed as he was with cannon, and the ocean's blessing. Some claimed he was the god Poseidon himself, the way the waves never really seemed to touch him, the way his ship cut through the water as if it was part of it, but Jones merely laughed at such tales. He was a proud man, but quiet in such pride, and not particularly one for tales of bravado.

It was in his thirty-fourth year that his understanding of the ocean would be tossed into turmoil by a single figure, an entity that would captivate him and steal his heart away for the rest of his unnatural existence.

-

Reviews are lovely. Flames will be fed to the Kraken. When it's born.


	2. You can call me Calypso

He had been on deck in the inky depth of night, singing his serenade as always to the ocean. The day had been long and hot, and the night had failed to sap the heat of it, the warmth setting deep into his bones as his hands carved out a piece of driftwood, curls of shaving whispered away on the wind to float away with the slow waves like angels' feathers. The wood felt good and smooth under his palms, and it seemed almost as though it was part of his ship, though it had merely been washed against the bow as they'd sailed and he'd picked it up along the way, deciding to use it for some task or another.

The _Dutchman_ rocked gently by the waves, its captain carving out some manner of creature or another from the dark knotted wood as he sung the slow lullaby of his own design, his back propped against the stern as he balanced delicately on the balustrade, his left foot swinging over the edge of the ship. He soon grew weary of the little wooden creature and set it aside to complete later, hopping down onto the deck and strolling over to the wheel with an air of casual interest, his fingers curled around the wheel as though he were handling something delicate and infinitely breakable, never once pausing in that odd melody.

So wrapped up in his own thoughts was he, that he scarcely noticed when a second, softer voice joined in chorus with his own, harmonizing with a tune slightly different, yet fundamentally the same. He jolted, spun around with his back to the wheel and looked for the intruder, his song broken in his shock. It was none of the crew that he found, but a woman, and for a minute he wondered if a stowaway had secreted themselves aboard, until he noted that she was entirely nude.

"Ya didn' seem de type easily startled, Davy Jones." She seemed to purr, taking a step towards him with the careful grace of a great feline, her dark eyes never leaving his own, despite the fact that he was quite a bit taller than she. He paused in that moment, unsure precisely how to answer this strange intruder, and chose to take the course of action most men might have when confronted with a naked stranger. Blue-grey eyes flicked over her form, as if he expected she might have some kind of weapon. Unless she had some manner of concealing it other than beneath clothing, she was unarmed, and so he relaxed, if only minutely so.

She was of a small stature, though, that might have been because he himself was rather tall, standing at a little over six feet, and her skin was as dark as the cocoa he'd ferried on Macmillan's ship, as smooth and unblemished as a wave. Her form was such that he was not left dismayed by her nudity, comprised of soft, entirely feminine curves that were entirely pleasing to his eye. Her eye darker still, a pool as black as the ocean depths that gently carried them, framed by thick dark lashes and a heavy lid. Her lips were stained black with ink, the nature of which he didn't know, but they curved into a slow, teasing smile by her jest, framed perfectly by her hair teased by time into dreads.

"I'm not accustomed ta unexpected visitors." He rumbled, his hands pressing back against the smooth, comforting surface of the wheel. She took another step forwards, until she was forced to look up at him to meet his gaze. A shrewd smile curled its way around her features, dark lips turning up in the corners. Then, with a hand as quick as a snake, she took his hat from him, placing it over her own head where it slipped down about her ears, threatening to cover her eyes.

"Unexpected? Hardly." She laughed then, the noise rich and as dark as the rest of her, her hands leaving the edges of the hat as she folded her arms across her chest. "I've known ya since ya was a boy, Davy Jones." The sight itself, the petite form with the hat much too big for her own head, was almost comical, and it teased a rough chuckle from somewhere in the region of his chest. He had no idea who this mysterious woman was, but he felt as though he was back on that dock in England, staring up at the _Dutchman_ with all the desire of a lover, and all the wonder of a new acquaintance.

"I know ya better than ya know yaself, and ya know me better than ya tink. " She winked at him and grinned, removing the hat from her head and twirling it between her fingers, the pirate captain staring dumbstruck for a long moment. He watched her move, each motion careful and deliberate, as though nothing she did was without purpose. Little emotion but that muted amusement crossed her features, though the sparkle of curiosity was captured in the liquid pools of her eyes, and Davy was almost, _almost_ certain that she was just as interested in him as he was in her. Of course, there was little chance that she, whoever she was, would be there if she wasn't interested in him, whether she was a stowaway or no, if she had no interest, she wouldn't have bothered to reveal herself to him, and risk his retribution.

But Davy Jones was not yet a cruel man, and he wouldn't have had her removed from the ship regardless of her dubious intentions. Nothing if not honourable, he might have even strove to protect her from the crew's less-than-honourable natures, and even less honourable intentions. But they were only men, men who had been at sea for a few months, and she had a form pleasing to the eye by far, so they could scarcely be blamed for wanting. Nevertheless, Jones had the distinct impression that she was not a creature who needed his well-guided attempt to protect whatever virtue she might have, she seemed as infinitely beautiful and deadly as a viper, and twice as ready to strike if needed.

"Who _are_ ye?" Davy demanded, peering at her in a state of intrigue, her odd appearance, lack of clothing, even odder nature ensnaring his imagination, watching her shift her weight onto one foot and stare up at him in equal determination.

"I have many names," She told him, turning about him as though she were checking over a prized possession for faults before purchasing, appraising and calculating in her gaze. "But you.. cyan call me Calypso."


End file.
